


the consolations of philosophy

by ivorykeys09



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, More tags will be added as things are revealed, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorykeys09/pseuds/ivorykeys09
Summary: After five years of working abroad and undercover as the United States' top cryptanalyst, Felicity returns home with more than a few secrets.AU, no island





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea wouldn't shake my mind. I'm thinking it'll be 3–4 parts.
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s quarter after two when Felicity gets back to the flat. It’s the only one on the seventh floor, with an encryption-protected elevator that—once unlocked with a handprint—opens right into the apartment.

On its exterior, the building is smartly designed to fit into the quaint, ancient-looking city that Munich is. Any passerby would assume it’s historic, original charm continues right into the interior but, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. It's also everything her place in Starling wasn’t: it’s ultra-modern, sleek, and effortlessly sophisticated. The layout is spacious and open-concept, and the rooms are filled with zero mementos and minimal furniture (which is fine because they’d rarely be used).

Starling will be home again soon, so she hasn’t _wanted_ to get comfortable here. And while it’s taken some time to get used to the muted, clean colors, she’s ultimately come to appreciate it. She even _likes_ it. Rarely does a stay go beyond ten days in a row, but it’s homebase at least once a month, and she’s grateful for the familiar comfort it brings. Since it’s on the top level, the 14-foot ceilings allow for almost no noise to travel between the one below it, which is a huge plus, and the wide, expansive windows are easily closed off by shades with the click of a button.

Her favorite part, though, is the bedroom. The bed is _dreamy_ , filled with soft, white linens, fluffy pillows, and enough room to lay across it no matter what direction.

The thought of it—and sleep—quietly beckons her, so she ignores the kitchen. She’s too tired and anxious to eat anyway, so she drops her work bag in the hallway and undresses as she walks, leaving a trail of clothes behind her. She silently thanks Google she’d already packed her suitcase for the following day, because all she can muster is pulling on a large t-shirt and throwing some water on her face, before falling into bed. Before she shuts her eyes, she sets her alarm for 7am (and 7:05, 7:10, and 7:15, just in case), then plugs her phone in to charge and succumbs her mind to sleep.

.

“Coffee, anyone?” the stewardess asks, balancing a tray carefully as she walks through the aisle.

“I’ll take some, please,” Felicity answers politely, smiling back in gratitude. The world becomes a little more clear once she swallows a few sips, and she finally allows herself to relax. It’s been a long day already and her journey isn’t even halfway over.

She’d woken to her (first) alarm, thankfully, and made her train in perfect time. She’d taken the fastest route possible from Munich to Strasbourg, only 3.5 hours, where a black car had welcomed her at the arrivals lounge. Some forty minutes later, they’d pulled up directly onto the runway of a small, private airport, to meet the mid-sized jet that was waiting patiently. She’d received the departure location just yesterday afternoon and knows a few other government employees will be traveling from places much farther to ride it with her.

The plane is by no means Air Force One, but it is pretty swanky. Directly behind the enclosed pilot quarters is a bathroom (complete with shower) and small kitchen, stocked with catered refreshments and prepared meals. A wall with a large television screen separates the front section from the main space, constantly displaying a map of their trip with rotating information like their current coordinates, flight time remaining, and weather upon arrival.

The belly of the plane, where she is sitting, is where most people are. It’s about half-full, with seven other people, but even if all the seats were taken it’d _still_ be more spacious than a commercial flight.

She scans her surroundings, an unconscious habit, and studies the other passengers.

Spanning the left side of the plane is a couch—on which two gentlemen are speaking in hushed Portuguese—followed by three rows of two seats. Spanning the entire right side are three tables, each surrounded by four secured, but spinnable chairs. Christine Wong, assistant to the Secretary of Defense, is seated at the middle table, typing on her laptop across from another gentleman. The other two men onboard are playing cards at the farthest table, which is adjacent to a closed door. Tucked behind it, in the back of the plane, is a small office used when urgent, private calls are patched through. She’s never needed to use it.

She is, gratefully, sitting in her own row. The leather seats are roomy and plush and, though they’re all seated upright at the moment, have the ability to fold down flat into a bed.

Even though they all work for the government in some way or another, there is still secrecy to their individual roles. She can’t take out any of her files or risk wandering eyes to look at her computer screen, so she decides to take advantage of the speedy wifi and continue her Netflix rewatch of _The West Wing._ Traveling on government-issued planes has been one of the (few) perks of her job, and she’s not going to let it go to waste—especially on a long flight like this one. She’s got twelve hours of uninterrupted TV time and isn’t embarrassed in the _slightest_ by how excited she is about it.

Netflix and chill is a rarity for her since she is, currently, the United States' top cryptanalyst. Not only has she designed some of the government’s most advanced coding systems, but she is able to translate, analyze, and hack almost any cipher. Her salary is well into the seven figures and she has barely spent a dime of it.

The job has been stressful and high-pressured, with long, unforgiving hours. But considering some of the country’s most critical and consequential secrets have been, quite literally, in the palms of her hands, she supposes it’s been par for the course.

But if she’s honest, she had no idea what this job entailed when she’d been recruited five years ago, plucked straight from Palmer Technologies. She’d only been working there a year when she’d gotten a strange, encrypted email from an unnamed source. Once she’d determined it was the CIA and agreed to a discussion, things had moved quickly.

It’s been challenging and exciting, but also incredibly top-secret. Her friends and family do not—and still don’t—know what she does.

On her first day five years ago, the Secretary of Homeland Security had personally delivered the assignment to the team, each member of which had been cherry-picked specifically for the project. The mission looked simple from the outside: it was a piece of paper with a list of names. Their targets were murderers, assassins, thieves—the worst of the worst. In truth, the team _still_ doesn’t know half of their crimes, but that wasn’t their job.

Their job was not to decide who goes _on_ the list; their job was concerned with what happens _after._

The team—five total—is rarely all in one room together, a deliberate decision that keeps their identities and safety assured. Though she’d started as the cryptanalyst, she’d slowly become the eyes and ears of the operation. She is the man—or… _wo_ man—on the ground and works out of a small office that changes locations every four weeks. The weapons coordinator, translator (nicknamed Rosie after Rosetta Stone) and federal agent work out in the field on their own, only syncing up when the assignment requires them to.

The only person who’d worked in the office with her is Curtis Holt. He is their biometric technology developer, excelling in everything regarding security access. From facial recognition to behavioral characteristics, he can find anyone worth searching for. (He also invents _007_ -type gadgets on the side, much to the chief’s dismay, including lipstick-disguised mace that Felicity, in no uncertain terms, _adores._ ) He is also her closest friend and ally, and she is thankful for him every day.

Selfishly, she wishes he were with her, if only to have someone to talk to, but knows he’s safer back in Europe.

It is always better to remain separate.

They’d learned that the hard way four years ago when Rosie and their agent, Barnsley, had been followed in Manila. Rosie had narrowly escaped the sniper, but the bullet had hit Barnsley right in the heart. There had been no time to mourn—one of the toughest parts of the job—and instead she’d had to hire a new recruit immediately, to continue their mission of crossing names off the list.

(It’s a decision she isn’t allowed to regret, yet has does so for so many reasons every single day.)

The assignment and list had taken them all over the world: from China to New Zealand to Costa Rica to even Ohio. Some missions took days, some took months, some seemed effortless and easy, while others at times seemed nearly impossible.

Their most recent assignment—the team’s _final_ one—had been, in fact, the most grave.

Vincent Vesper, the target, was highly skilled and incredibly lethal. Not only had he slipped their surveillance more times than any other criminal, but he was also the creator of the most destructive bomb in recent memory. It had taken them six months to track it _and_ him down, and they’d spent the time slowly taking out his allies and known associates across the world, one by one. Last week his final apprentice had been killed by their agent, ending any possibility of future similarly-designed explosives and leaving Vesper—the mind behind it all—the only one left.

When the coordinates of his location had centered on a little town in Croatia, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was almost over.

If he hadn’t built a bomb that could take out the entirety of Europe, the home she’s come to love the past few years, she’d taken the time to marvel at his mastery. Because looking at the science and math of it, it was really quite extraordinary.

But she never actually revered it; because if they had failed, the consequences were so enormous, so utterly overwhelming, and so completely devastating to fathom, she couldn’t even give it a thought.

His motive was unclear and unimportant. They’d just needed to disarm it.

And thankfully they did.

The team had never let each other down, and this was no exception. The mission hadn’t gone without its hiccups; she’d lost contact with their agent for a total of seven painstaking hours before his croaked voice had finally patched through the radio. He’d sustained some (non-life-threatening) injuries, but in the end, he’d done his job. The bomb was diffused and Vesper was locked up for life.

And just like that, the last name on the list had been crossed off.

It’d almost felt anticlimactic in a way. Because of the enormity of the mission, the team had all be split up (even her and Curtis) for the action; when it ended, they hadn’t even been together to shake hands or hug, or even celebrate their accomplishment as a group. The past five years they've been a team, but they ended it on their own.

After it was over, all she’d wanted to do was sleep in her bed for three days straight. But instead, she’s headed on a plane back to Starling.  

Her mother, obviously unaware at the true reason for her return, had been thrilled when Felicity called last week with the news of her trip. It’s been eighteen months since they’ve seen each other and she misses her mom more than anything. They’d done a girls trip in Italy awhile back, but she hasn’t visited Starling since she moved away five years ago. It is long, _long_ overdue, and she can’t wait to curl up on the sofa, eat ice cream, and catch up on all that’s been going on in their lives—in person!—in the years since she’s been gone.

.

“Do you know who that is?” a voice whispers, leaning far too much into her personal space.

She turns to the source and nearly bumps her nose against his own. She’d been so engrossed in her Netflix queue, she hadn’t noticed he’d taken the seat beside her. Annoyance flares when she looks behind her. All the other rows are empty. “Pardon?”

“Do you know who that is?” the man asks again, discreetly pointing to the gentlemen at the table across from Christine.

Felicity studies the man. His brown hair is cropped short to his head, face covered in day-old scruff, and he’s wearing a sweater and dark jeans. His posture is stiff and uncomfortable and his piercing blue eyes are anything but relaxed—they look angry and annoyed, focused only on the newspaper before him.

“No, I don't think I do,” she answers. “Who is he?”

The man blushes, excited about the prospect of sharing his knowledge. “That’s Oliver Queen.”

She stays silent, looking at her neighbor expectantly.

He continues, “He’s only the best agent known to man. He’s like the USA’s James Bond. Skillful and deadly.”

The words make Felicity shiver in her seat, and just as she’s about to avert her gaze, the blue eyes belonging to the man in question meet her’s. She quickly looks away.

“Well, better stay on his good side,” Felicity jokes lightly, unbuckling her seatbelt so she can stand. “I’m going to refill my coffee.”

By the time she makes it back to her row, it is blessedly empty, so she places her purse on the newly vacant seat before anyone else can take it. Instead of finishing the latest episode, she powers down her tablet and places it back in her bag, before gathering up the blankets and pillows they were given before takeoff. She’s still exhausted from the little sleep she’d gotten last night, and with only a few hours remaining, she settles in to get some rest.

.

.

The last place Felicity Smoak wants to be after hours and hours of traveling is a fancy gala for Starling City’s elite. Unfortunately, that’s where she is.

(At least she’s wearing her new Valentinos.)

Her mother had been _thrilled_ that her trip had coincided with a few of the events she’s been planning months for. This evening, it's the celebration for the 75th anniversary of Starling City's founding. Not only will the mayor and highest city officials be here, but the CEOs of all the major corporations, including Robert Queen of Queen Consolidated and Ray Palmer of Palmer Technologies, are also on the guest list.

After years of working in the service industry in Las Vegas most of her life, Donna Smoak had put all her savings—every penny—into starting her own event planning company in Starling. The parties and celebrations of Smoak’n Events, (despite its name), under her direction are elegant, flawless, and perfectly executed. From weddings to galas like this one, her mother can plan for any occasion and any client.  Felicity had become a silent investor when the company had such early success that Donna could barely keep up on her own. Two years later, now with a team of ten employees and at least three bookings per week, her mother is the go-to party planner in town. The business isn’t lacking in clientele, but the high-profile clients that could potentially be made tonight is huge.

Only a few minutes into the evening, looking around the room, Felicity can already tell it’s a smashing success and is sure the mayor will have the Smoak’n team on standby for any event. 

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh," comes Donna's voice, as she rushes up to her daughter. She's uncharacteristically flustered. “The Queens just arrived.”

The room comes to a low murmur at the sight of the Queen family at the entrance. Robert and Moira Queen are hand in hand, each with small, polite smiles on their faces, while their daughter follows closely behind.

The guests' conversations pick back up again, and there’s a hum of happy noise throughout the room.

“Who’s that with Thea?” Donna wonders aloud, before letting out a gasp. “Oh my gosh! I think that’s their _son_.” Her voice is low and dramatic as she leans in closer to Felicity. “His name is Oliver. I don't think he's been home in _years_.”

Sure enough, Thea—who looks to be in her late teens—has her arms linked tightly around her older brother’s. The gorgeous navy blue dress she has on matches perfectly with Oliver’s tie, and Felicity knows it’s not a coincidence—Thea’s expression says it all. A smile is wide across her face and she only has eyes for her brother. It’s clear she is thrilled to have him home.

His face, meanwhile, is the opposite of what she’d seen on the plane this morning; his eyes are a little softer and not as angry, especially as he looks down at his sister. He must say something funny then, because Thea falls against him in laughter, before pulling his hand over to a group of people.

Felicity turns her back before his familiar blue eyes can find her.

Donna smoothes her dress, eying the room anxiously. “The place looks okay, though, right? And you think everything is going well?”

“Relax, mom,” Felicity soothes, pressing a comforting hand to Donna’s shoulder. “The place looks great. I’ve overheard so many people complimenting how lovely everything is.”

Donna lets out a breath. “I’ve been working with Moira for months on Robert’s birthday party, but you never know…” Her voice trails off as she peeks around her daughter to find the woman in question. “If she isn’t impressed by this party, she could fire me before Thursday's event.”

Felicity resists the urge to roll her eyes. “I hardly think she’d do that, mom.”

“You can’t be so sure! You don’t know her, Felicity. You only lived here for a year—that woman can be ruthless, believe me. She’s been nothing but kind to me, but I’ve heard stories.”

Sighing, Felicity shrugs her shoulder. “Okay, yeah I don’t know her, but I still don’t think she’d do that. Just relax and enjoy the party.” Once she has her mother’s attention, she pulls her into a hug. “I’m so proud of you, mom. Really. What you’ve built for yourself is unbelievable.”

“Thank you, baby,” Donna replies softly, brushing Felicity’s hair behind her ear. “I’m so glad I followed you here five years ago. This would have never happened if I was still in Las Vegas.”

Felicity smiles and shakes her head. “I respectfully disagree, but just enjoy and bask in the fruits of your labor.”

Donna blushes and claps happily in response, then stands up more confidently on her very high heels. “Come on, I want you to meet some people.” Grabbing Felicity’s hand, she leads her into the crowd, stopping at every other person to introduce her daughter.

It isn’t until a very long two hours later that she’s finally escaped her mother’s chatty friends. She’d met everyone from Donna’s neighbors and hairstylist, to the mayor, to Detective Quentin Lance (whom her mother shamelessly flirted with). Quentin was accompanied by his daughters this evening, and though she hadn’t actually met them—since Laurel and Sara were in the crowd around the younger Queens—he had pointed them out across the room.

Now standing at a tall, rounded table alone, it is the first time all night she’s had some semblance of peace and quiet. And even though the band is still rocking out and the crowds of people are five feet away, she takes a breath and savors it.

All she wants to do is go home. She is exhausted, her head is throbbing, and all she's craving is Big Belly. (It's been _years._ ) If she wasn’t with Donna, she’d have Irish-goodbyed this thing thirty minutes ago; but since she is, she stays perched in the periphery, on alert for a short, bubbly blonde making her way through the room.

“Felicity, honey!” her mom’s voice calls out, as if on cue.

Her heart drops when she turns and spots Donna walking towards her, followed closely by Ray Palmer.

Though she’d worked at Palmer Tech for a year after college, she’d never actually formally met Ray, who’d just newly taken over his father’s helm as CEO when she’d started. They are similar in age and brain, and it is immediately evident that her mother has realized this. She can practically see a heart-shaped arrow in Donna’s hands.

“Felicity, have you met Ray Palmer? Ray, my daughter used to work for you. Isn’t that such a small world? I mean, what are the chances!”

“Smooth,” Felicity murmurs under her breath, shooting her mother a look. She gives Ray a smile and offers her hand. “Felicity Smoak. So nice to formally meet you.”

“And you,” he replies, grip strong as he shakes her hand.

Ray is tall, boyishly handsome, and very broad. His shoulders almost seem too big for his frame in the way that if they hugged—which they will _not_ —she’s certain he would crush her.

His smile is kind, though, and she’d read somewhere last year that he’d lost his fiancée. So that, mixed with her mother’s hopeful face, is what pushes her to play nice for five minutes.

“Felicity works for a hospital in…” Donna frowns. “Where is it again, baby?”

“Bosnia,” Felicity supplies easily, confident her mother won’t notice it doesn’t match the location she’d told her a few months ago. (Bulgaria.) She used to feel terrible about it, switching up the country and city names every so often, but she also knows they all go over her head. Donna Smoak wouldn’t remember a name like Kosovo, even if Felicity had lived there for years.

“Right.” Donna smiles proudly. “Bosnia.”

Ray looks surprised. “Oh, wow. I’ve been to many places in Europe, but not there. I didn’t realize you were a doctor now. What’s your specialty?”

She shakes her head quickly, waving her hand. “Oh, I’m not a doctor. I work as a technology consultant for a hospital network in Europe. They hired a team of us to set up a new computer system in some of their more deprived, lower-tier hospitals. A lot of them are still paper-based and so we’re just doing our part to bring them into the twenty-first century.” It’s a completely fictional profession, but she still likes to downplay it as much as she can. She’d set up a good digital footprint to cover her tracks, but Ray is a genius. He won’t be able to figure it all out, but he’d come closer than anyone else outside the government.

Ray, to his credit, still looks impressed. “Wow,” he praises, reaching out to cover her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “That’s really amazing, Felicity.”

Her cheeks flush at the compliment, fake as the job is, as she casually pulls her hand back to pick up her glass. “Thanks,” she replies, finishing her drink.

He notices her empty tumbler. “Can I get you another?” he offers, leading her towards the bar. “What are you drinking? Diet Coke?”

Felicity nods, confirming his guess. “10 points to Gryffindor.”

“Oh, I’m Hufflepuff,” Ray teases back without missing a beat.

Caught off guard, she lets out a loud laugh, surprised by his endearing, if not dorky, charm. Her mother, happy with what she sees, slinks off into the crowd and leaves them alone before Felicity can stop her.

Twenty long minutes later, she, reluctantly, has a date to Robert Queen’s party on Thursday—which Donna is requiring her to go—and is even _more_ over everything than she was earlier in the evening.

Donna finally agreed to let her call it a night, since she’ll be home much later after the event has been broken down, so Felicity heads to pick up her coat from the coat room. It’s tucked away near the restrooms and after tipping the attendant, she heads down the quiet, low-lit hallway towards the exit.

It happens so quickly.

Before she can even put on her peacoat, the door to a private bathroom opens and someone pulls her inside. She’s pushed up against it as it slams shut, and the hand covering her mouth is immediately replaced by lips.

And the rest of the world is lost to her.

The mouth _devours_ her desperately. It only takes a moment for her to return it, but when she does, she matches the intensity with fervor. It is all tongue and teeth, pushing and pulling her deeper and deeper. The spike in the room’s temperature rivals her own and when they break, only due to lack of oxygen, her body feels like jelly.

Her lips feel swollen and thoroughly used. “Holy frack, you scared me,” she pants, working to steady her breath.

His voice is soft and apologetic as his hands frame her face. “Sorry,” he says, pressing another kiss to her mouth. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

His arms wrap around her frame and she nearly purrs at the warmth that spreads around her. Forget her coat— _this_ is all she needs. Chasing it, she grasps his lapel and reaches up on her tiptoes to nuzzle further into the hollow of his neck. The position allows her to take advantage of the skin that resides there, and she relishes in the contented sound that escapes his lips as her mouth begins to tease him. “I’ve been wanting to do that all _week_ ,” she whispers, taking a moment’s pause to capture his lips again.

After another minute, she forces herself to pull away. “How was Dubrovnik?” It’s a dumb question, since she technically knows how it went, but she still wants to hear it from him.

“More difficult than I wanted it to be, but it’s over now,” he reports, exhaustion and relief evident on his face. It softens after a second. “I want to take you there. You’ll love the town and water views. And there’s really good wine.”

“Mmm,” she hums happily, stepping even further into his personal space. “We’ll add it to our list.”

He kisses her forehead. “How was last night? I’m sorry I couldn’t call—I figured I’d see you on the plane, but then realized too late that we wouldn’t be able to talk.”

“It was fine,” she answers, leaving it at that as she lets out a yawn. “What I wouldn’t have given to sit next to you on the flight, though. Those seats are comfortable, but I wanted your shoulder and body heat. Our bed seemed extra big this week.”

He tugs her close again, before pulling away with a hiss.

Concerned, she eyes him. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just a little sore.”

Her eyes narrow. "Oliver."

He shrugs it off. “I’m fine. I just strained my back when Vesper and I hit the ground, and sitting on that fucking plane for twelve hours didn’t help.”

She soothes his back with her hand, gently resting her head on his chest.

It’s quiet for a minute before he speaks again. “My mom is forcing me to take Laurel to my dad’s birthday party,” he admits tightly, and from his tone, she knows he’s happy they’re not looking eye to eye.

She fixes that, stepping away to tilt his head down to her level. “I figured,” she replies, playing it cool. (She’d watched Moira nearly force Laurel and Oliver into conversation from across the room, nevermind the fact that they are old friends.) The breath of relief he lets out makes her laugh. She fixes that too. “My mom is making me go with Ray Palmer.”

He tries—and fails—at keeping a passive face.

Felicity just tuts at him, running her hands down his spine and not stopping until they’re dangerously low. “You’re showing your green, honey. But don’t worry, he’s harmless.”

“Still,” he replies, then kisses her soundly to make his point.

She sighs when he pulls away. “But do you realize how much more fracking complicated this all just got? Everyone is so tangled and connected. It’s annoying.”

He shrugs, now looking amused by the situation. “It’ll be fine,” he promises, trailing his thumb across her cheekbone.

“How are you so sure? It’s stressful! My head is constantly pounding, I barely sleep, and my appetite is nonexistent. And on top of that, my mother is making me date Ray and attend all of these fancy parties which I _didn’t_ pack for.”

He just laughs and presses a kiss on her temple.

“It’s not funny!”

“Relax, honey. Come Saturday, all of this will be over. The feds just need to finish the last of the paperwork and Curtis has to confirm all traces of our names aren’t anywhere near Vesper. Then it’ll be safe and we can go public.”

“Finally,” she says, looking and feeling more exhausted all of a sudden. The next week is going to be long. It’s only a few more days, but the thought of waiting another minute feels entirely too daunting. Summoning energy she doesn’t have, she straightens on her feet and nods. “Okay. Well, come Saturday, what should we start with first? That we just resigned from the CIA or that we’ve been secretly married for three years?”

.

.

.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to post an update! Work has been insane for a few months and finally slowed down. I'm hoping it won't take me as long for the next update.
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the kind comments and kudos on the first chapter. I was so humbled and thrilled by your interest in this story.
> 
> Please enjoy this chapter!
> 
> .
> 
> Disclaimer: I obvs don't own DC Comics, Arrow, the characters, etc.

Sleeping _without_ her husband had been, unfortunately, par for the course due to the nature of their jobs. When Oliver would go off on assignment—from a few days to weeks—she’d been subjected to sleeping alone in their bed many a night. (With extra comforters, she might add, because she didn’t have the cozy, warm, Oliver-shaped furnace sleeping beside her.)

She’s never liked sleeping alone, but she’s used to it at this point.

Which is why she’s _so incredibly_ frustrated by her inability to sleep since getting back to Starling. Aside from a few two-hour stretches, she’s only gotten tiny bouts of solid sleep and has spent most of the nights tossing and turning. The busy week combined with jetlag has nearly driven her mad. She’s beyond exhausted, and her mother—god love her—is not helping.

To say the few days following Star City’s founding party have been a _lot_ would be an understatement.

Her mother had been relentless with activities. The first two days Felicity was home, Donna barely paid mind to her job and the events she was in the midst of planning for, including Robert Queen’s birthday party. Instead, she’d delegated tasks off to her very capable staff and spent every single moment catching up with her daughter.

Tuesday, the morning after the party, had started with brunch at the newest restaurant in town, followed by mani-pedis and shopping. Wednesday had started with a mom-and-daughter couples massage and even _more_ shopping. They’d finished the day by ordering takeout, reading fashion magazines, and watching movies—eventually falling asleep in the living room, after hours of talking about everything under the sun.

They’d woken up this morning doing the same, since the four years of stories and gossip they’d spent apart provided ample topics for them to catch up on.

And though she probably has endless things to prepare for, Felicity can tell Donna is stalling at getting back into event planner mode for the party tonight, and she has a bad feeling why.

Not only is she tired after rough night of sleep on the couch—she was too lazy to move to the guest room—but her mother’s attempts to steer the conversation back to her love life has been even more exhausting. She’d successfully been able to sidestep too much interrogation thus far, but she’s officially fresh out of ideas on how to distract her again. And she’s way too tired to try.

“Honey, are you seriously telling me you haven’t so much as gone on a _date_ since you moved away?” Even though they’re alone, her mother’s voice drops to a whisper. “It’s not _healthy,_ baby. Women have needs!”

“Oh my god, mom,” Felicity chokes out, rubbing a hand down her face to gather patience. “Please do not talk about my...sexual needs.”

“What?” Donna asks innocently, not looking apologetic in the slightest. “I mean, I don’t have a boyfriend, but I _certainly_ find ways to satisfy my—”

Felicity cuts her off. “Please don’t finish that sentence.”

Donna laughs, then leans over to smooth her daughter’s hair behind her ears. “Okay, I’ll stop. But I just want you to find the man of your dreams and be happy.”

Felicity leans over to kiss her mom’s cheek, feeling a wave of affection for her. “I know. I’ve been on dates, I promise. Just none of them have stuck.” She smiles, feeling playful. “There _is_ this one guy, though, who I’ve become really close to.”

Donna lights up and throws her magazine to the side. “What?! Tell me about him!”

“His name is Curtis. We talk nearly every day...”

Donna’s hand goes to her heart.

“...he’s tall...”

Her mother sighs.

“...handsome, smart, funny…”

Then gasps.

“...and completely gay.”

Donna groans, laying back on the couch with a huff. “You are impossible!”

Laughing, Felicity stands to pat her mother’s shoulder, before making her way to the kitchen for some tea. “Stay positive, mom. My guy is out there. Maybe I’ll even meet him at the party tonight.”

She laughs inwardly at her own joke, as her mother huffs.

“I doubt that,” Donna sighs, getting up to grab her agenda for the day. She stops in her tracks and reconsiders, “Oh! Maybe it’s Ray—”

“It’s not,” Felicity says quickly, striking that from the record once and for all. “And it’s not a date. I’m just accompanying him.”

Her mother lets out another frustrated noise.

“Mom,” Felicity warns, “Please drop the Ray thing.”

“No, it’s not that honey. My florist just switched times on me and now I’m double-booked.” Donna frowns at her phone as she reads through her messages. “I have to oversee the arrangement set-up but The Carlton requires a signed contract before the event takes place tonight. Moira is expecting me to stop by so she can sign the paperwork.”

And just like that, Felicity is wide awake.

“I can go,” she offers, hoping it comes off as more helpful than eager. She’s used to being apart from her husband, but it’s five thousand times harder when they’re just three miles away from each other. They’ve barely spoken, even by phone, since eyes may still be watching them, and...well...

She misses him.

Donna waves her off. “Oh, honey that’s so sweet of you, but I can have one of my coordinators go.” She pauses, thinking it through in her head. “Though...they’re all going to be busy with the table and chair set-up...”

An hour later, Felicity finds herself gasping as she drives through the Queen’s front gates and the house comes into view.

 _Manor_ actually seems like the more appropriate term. Or mansion.

The beauty nearly matches its size—it is _enormous._ The gorgeous stone and architectural lines could mistake it for a castle, and the courtyard and landscaping are exquisitely designed. It is a vision, especially outfitted with the beautifully bow-wrapped pine wreaths and white holiday lights that adorn the home. Felicity can barely take her eyes off it as she parks the car.

If she didn’t know Oliver as well as she did (and his family, through his stories), she’d be more frightened by the sheer opulence of it—it's so far from what she’s used to. But she knows under the facade, they are a (relatively) normal family, with everything from challenges and issues to beloved traditions, and forces herself to remember that.

Even so, walking up to what is—technically (and crazily enough)— _her family’s_ home, is still pretty nerve-wracking, and she hates the way her hands shake as she rings the doorbell.

It’s silent for a few moments, and before she can turn around and bail, the door is opened by a woman in a crisp maid’s uniform.

“Hello, miss. Can I help you?” She is only a little taller than Felicity, maybe mid-to-late sixties, and has soft, kind eyes. Even without a formal instruction, Felicity knows, without question, that this is Raisa. As a pseudo-parental figure, she’d been a main character in most of Oliver’s childhood stories and one of his favorite people in the world. Standing before his nanny/housekeeper for the first time, Felicity feels a rush of affection for the woman and fights the strong desire to hug her.

She instead gives a little wave and smile. “Hi. I’m Felicity Smoak.” Raisa waits expectantly for her to continue, “My mother is the event planner for Mr. Queen’s birthday party tonight and I have some last-minute paperwork that I need Moi—I mean, Mrs. Queen’s signature on. Is she available?”

Raisa gives her a quick once-over, then nods and opens the door to let her inside.

Warmth greets her the moment she steps foot into the impressively grand entry. Dark wood millwork surrounds the room and main staircase, and she can’t help but look up in awe at the magnificent chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

When she looks back down, she has to rush to catch up with Raisa, who briskly leads her into the living room before excusing herself to find Moira.

Now alone, and too anxious to just sit and wait, Felicity walks around the room and takes in the details. It’s a formal space, as she assumes the rest of the house is as well, but there are intimate touches that make it feel like it actually belongs to the family that lives here.

Her eyes catch sight of picture frames, and she unconsciously makes her way over to the far corner. Sitting next to the baby grand piano is an ornate gold bookshelf filled with family photos from over the years. Like her, Oliver had moved to Europe with little belongings. Since their career forced them to move from place to place so often, it didn’t make sense to pack unnecessary items. Childhood photos had not been at the top of his list, so she’s only seen one or two pictures of his past.

To see snapshots of his early life is an unexpected, welcome surprise, and her eyes become suddenly misty. There’s something about seeing her husband as a little boy that affects her profoundly. Oliver has been subjected to torture, violence, and so many battles in the past few years; he’s gone through hell and back, and to see him as a young boy—safe and innocent from all the world’s challenges—is a sacred sight to behold.

Her eyes take in all they can, before she picks up one photo in particular. It was clearly taken on Christmas day, since a sparking tree is in the background of the shot. Oliver’s maybe three, wearing darling red corduroy overalls over a turtleneck, and socks without shoes. The moment captures him playing with an elaborate toy train set; he’s lying with his belly on the ground, head propped up by his elbow, as he leads the front train car down the tracks with his other hand. He’s smiling so wide his face is nearly split in two and is absolutely, positively adorable.

She loves the photo instantly, and makes a mental note to ask him for her own copy.

“I always ache for those years, especially at Christmastime.”

She is usually much more perceptive, but Moira’s voice makes her jump and look up in surprise. Before she can apologize for her nosiness, her mother-in-law joins her, wordlessly reaching out for the photo. “I sometimes miss them when they were that young,” she muses, lightly touching the glass as she studies it for another moment. “He was so cute.”

“He was,” Felicity agrees, voice giving way to her nerves. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No matter,” Moira says, placing the frame back on the shelf. She straightens, and her eyes lose some of the warmth they had while she was staring at the photo. She's back to being all business. “Now, you must be Felicity. It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, giving her a small, polite smile and holding out her hand.

“It’s so nice to meet you as well,” Felicity replies, a little stunned by how welcoming the woman standing next to is being. She’d imagined their first interaction countless times, and this is not at all how she’d pictured it.

Moira leads them over to one of the velvet couches that flank a marble coffee table. “You’ve just come back into town, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Felicity confirms, wondering what else her mother has shared with Moira. The thought actually makes her a little nauseous. Donna can, very often, have no filter; she can only imagine the embarrassing tidbits she’s disclosed.

Not for the first time, she again finds it so strange how both women have met and corresponded often, yet have no idea their children are married.

“My apologies if I keep this short; I don’t have much time,” Moira says, glancing at her watch. “I have a conference call in a few minutes, and then some appointments before the party tonight.”

“Of course. This won’t take much time. I just need your signature on the banquet hall contract.”

Moira nods. “Oh, yes, Donna did say that would need to be signed before tonight.”

Minding the time, Felicity quickly roots through her purse to find the papers and a pen.

As Moira reviews and signs the contract, she pulls out her phone to text her husband, confident enough with the security measures she’s put in place to take the risk.

 

**Felicity, 11:14am: Formally meeting my mother-in-law should not involve this much paperwork ;)**

**Oliver, 11:14am: ?  
Oliver, 11:14am: Paperwork? I don’t think I understand...   **

**Felicity, 11:15am: I maaaaay be in your living room.**

 

Barely thirty seconds later, Oliver rounds the corner and slows his pace the moment he sees her.

“Hi.” He looks endearingly off-kilter at the sight of her with his mother. “What are you doing here?” he asks before he can stop himself, taking a few steps closer to the couch.

Moira lets out a small huff beside her and clears her throat. “Goodness, Oliver. Where are your manners? That is not how I raised you to greet a guest,” she chides at her son, as if he’s six years old and not thirty-something. A mixed look of embarrassment and annoyance flits across Oliver’s face, and Felicity has to press her lips together to stop her smile.

He eyes his mother before turning to Felicity. “My apologies. I’m Oliver.”

“Felicity Smoak. It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you,” he replies, and if his mother hears the way his voice lowers, she doesn’t show it.

Moira hands the papers back to Felicity, as they both stand. “Well, now that this is signed, I must go dial in to my call. Thank you for coming by, Felicity, I do appreciate it. Please tell your mother that we’re all looking forward to the party tonight.” She gestures to the entry. “I’ll just walk you out.”

“Actually, Ms. Smoak,” Oliver cuts in, reaching for her hand out of habit, before he realizes what he’s doing. His arm ends up awkwardly hanging mid-air, so he quickly drops it and shoves both hands in his pockets. “May I have a word with you in private?”

His mother looks at him in suspicion. “What in heavens for, Oliver?”  

“I have a little surprise I’m planning for tonight,” he explains simply.

She almost expects Moira to challenge him again, but she instead just lifts a brow and gives a conceding nod.

Oliver barely waits for the approval to leave, and tilts his head down the hall. “If you’ll follow me, we can talk in the library.”

Felicity nods. “Bye, Moi—I mean, Mrs. Queen,” she mumbles, before following Oliver’s lead.

The only sound that surrounds them is his low chuckle and her heels clacking against the hardwood floors, and after a quick zig-zagging journey, he finally opens the last of the fifteen doors they pass and gestures inside.

Stepping into the room, she’s overcome, yet again, by the grandeur of the home. The room is situated on the far left side of the house and, like the entry, is two stories tall. A stately chandelier hangs from the ceiling, illuminating walls filled with so many books the nerdy part of her heart thumps wildly. A rod-iron bar outlines the top of each bookshelf and her eyes trail the path of it until they reach the charming ladder it’s attached to. It all feels very _Beauty and the Beast_ and she delightfully takes in every detail she can get her eyes on.

A bar cart is tucked in the corner, with crystal tumblers and expensive-looking bottles. In front of the opposite wall is a giant antique globe, because of _course_ there is, and dotted around the room are different armchairs, all placed in various setups. There are two facing a large, limestone fireplace, four circling a low game table, and a few by the window—strategically placed, she imagines, to admire the lovely view of the side garden.

While the living room’s furniture is pristine and formal, the chairs in here are stylishly squashy and well-loved. There’s a cozy vibe that hadn’t been felt in the entry or living room, and for the first time since arriving, she feels at home.

Or, at least, _slightly_ more at ease.

It still doesn’t feel like she’s standing in her in-laws home, though. A fact that, admittedly, stings a little. Having been married to Oliver for a few years, the mansion _should_ feel warm and welcoming to her, but it only feels unfamiliar and foreign instead.

She feels not one ounce of regret about how they fell in love, the circumstances surrounding it, and how their union came to be. And she knows Oliver feels the same way. But a small part of her does mourn the “normal” relationship moments and timeline they didn’t have, and it cuts especially deeper in times like this. They weren’t able to do the awkward parent introductions—though, she may have just checked that box with Moira—or childhood home tours or family holidays. Their reality has been undercover meetings and—understandably, for their safety—deceiving their loved ones. And while she wouldn’t give up the years where it was just _them_ , in their own little cocoon, forming their own family unit for _anything_ in the world, the ache for normal can still resurface and surprise her. She knows "normal"is coming, but the rest still stings.

Brushing that away and refusing to feel sad, she looks around the room again. If she’d grown up here, she’d be in this library all the time, reading every single book she could get her hands on. She smiles at the thought of a ten-year-old Oliver curled in one of the chairs with a chapter book, but then breathes out a laugh when she remembers her husband has never been the book type.

At the thought of Oliver, and the silence that just now registers, she turns to look for him. And the sight of her husband—sitting casually in one of the tall, wingback chairs—is a sight for sore eyes. He is, as always, the picture of handsome and takes a moment to appreciate him. He’s wearing a light blue button-down, no tie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a reverent smile.

She steps closer. “What’s that look?”

He tilts his head at that, in silent question. “Just admiring the view.” His voice is soft and warm and matches the adoration in his eyes.

The words cause her heart to bump up in size. Even after a few years of marriage, a status where they have _permission_ to openly stare at each other, his gaze still sometimes catches her breath.

Flushing at the compliment, knowing full well he wasn’t talking about the garden, she slowly walks her way over to him.

“It’s been days since I’ve seen you, _weeks_ since we’ve really been together because of the assignment and...I miss you.” He reaches a hand out, beckoning her closer, and lowers his voice. “A _lot._ ”

(She, herself, will also never get used to being allowed to stare openly at _him_ , and takes the job _very seriously._

Like now.)

The air crackles with charged heat as she lowers onto his lap, straddling him in the chair. Her dress doesn’t make it easy, but the warm hands that frame her hips help settle her into place.

“I’ve missed you too,” she whispers, pausing to give her husband a proper kiss hello. He matches it with fervor, pulling her closer as he mixes his tongue with her’s to deepen the kiss. The familiar taste, smell, and feel of him makes her eyes sting with emotion again; he is _home_ , and the all-consuming sensation allows herself to relax for the first time in days. If she wasn’t so keyed up, especially by the way his hips are lifting insistently into hers, she’d curl up against his chest and close her eyes. But she’s not sure when they’ll get another moment to themselves, so she presses down on him and trails her lips from his stubbled chin to his neck.

His hands follow the expanse of her thighs, before landing under her dress and cupping her ass. She gasps at the contact, leaning into him a little more and completely forgetting about where they are.

His hands toy with her thong as she tugs his ear between her teeth. He sighs, “Honey—”

“Ollie? Ollie!”

At the sound of the voice, Felicity scrambles off of his lap so quickly and ungracefully, Oliver has to reach out and steady her before she twists an ankle. She barely has time to straighten her dress and glance at him before the footsteps outside get louder. Panic flares at the sight of red lipstick on his neck and she hopes for his sake that he understands the frazzled hand gestures she’s making to clue him in. Luckily they do, and he moves to stand behind the chair as he wipes at his skin.

A useless knock sounds against to the door, since it’s opened before they can answer back.

A cold shower in the form of Thea Queen enters.

“Ollie, what are you doing in the libr—” She stops short at the sight of them, eyes darting back and forth between them both. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

“It’s fine,” Oliver sighs, brusque enough to earn a glare from his sister; he is annoyed and more than a little aroused, and it’s clear he isn’t happy about the interruption. Felicity wants to give him a look that tells him to take it down a notch, but she’s positive it would not go unnoticed by the younger Queen. His breath is remarkably steady as he gestures between the two. “Thea, this is Felicity...uh, Smoak. Felicity, this is my younger sister, Thea.”

The giddiness she feels about finally meeting her sister-in-law makes her momentarily forget they are still technically undercover. “Thea! It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you from—” A huffed cough from Oliver snaps her back to their cover story. “...my mom,” she finishes lamely, flushing at her carelessness.

Thea looks entirely confused, but charmed all the same. Slowly, she asks, “I’m sorry…who is your mom?”

Felicity shifts on her heels. “She’s the, uh, event planner for your dad’s party tonight.”

A light bulb goes off. “Oh, Donna!” Thea says happily, working it through in her head and stepping further into the room. “Felicity Smoak... _Smoak’in_ Events. Duh. She’s come by a few times to meet with my mom. She’s awesome. Quite the character.”

“Quite,” Felicity agrees simply, knowing herself enough to keep it short and sweet when she’s nervous.

There’s a few beats of silence, and just as she’s about to break it, Thea does. “So what are you guys talking about? The party?”

Oliver nods. “Yes. Felicity and I were just discussing a small surprise I’ve planned for tonight.”

Thea grimaces. “Ew, Ollie, are you planning on having like a...dancer pop out of a giant cake or something?”

The suggestion clearly offends him. “What? No!” he rejects, walking over to them both. “I...just wanted to make sure the band plays mom and dad’s wedding song.”

Lying has been a big part of his job, but Felicity is still impressed by the quick excuse he’s fabricated.

Touched, Thea brings a hand to her chest. “Aww, Ollie. That’s so sweet.” She turns to Felicity. “Seriously, this is very out of character for him. My brother is like, the _least_ romantic person on the planet.”

It’s yet another moment where she wishes they didn’t need to pretend, since she can oppose the claim _wholeheartedly_. But even though she can’t defend it as his wife, she can at least refute it out of courtesy. “I’m sure that’s not true,” she says, playfully batting his upper bicep and trying her best to ignore the way his eyes darken at her touch.

Thea shakes her head and stresses her point again. “No, he’s got, like, _zero_ game. Hopefully he won’t embarrass himself too much with Laurel tonight.”

“Thea,” Oliver warns, sending her another glare.

His sister shrugs innocently. “What?”

Exasperated, he rubs his thumb and middle fingers together to calm himself. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t like Laurel in that way? Mom is just forcing me to go with her.”

Thea laughs heartily. “Ollie, you’re thirty. If you don’t want to go with her, don’t go with her. Screw mom and her overbearing attempt at trying to play cupid.” Saying it out loud seems to make the younger Queen like the idea even more. Her eyes light up at just the _thought_ of Oliver actually going through with it.

Felicity’s heart jumps at the thought too. But he couldn’t possibly—

“You’re right,” he says, and _… what?!_

Stunned, Felicity whips her head to look at him.

He holds her gaze and smiles. “Would _you_ like to be my date tonight, Ms. Smoak?”

The invitation and twist of events is so surprising, she can barely form a response.

“Uh…” she looks nervously to Thea, then back at him. “Are you sure? I mean, what about Laurel? You can’t stand her up on the _day_ of the event. That’s like, against proper date protocol. I mean, believe me, it _sucks_. I’ve had dates cancel on me hours before we were supposed to go out and it’s the _opposite_ of fun—”

Oliver’s amused look, thankfully, stops her rambling. Because, yeah, why the hell is she refuting his offer?

He ignores her concerns about Laurel, obviously paying no mind to how this affects her. “I’m sure. Unless you have any reason _not_ to go with me...” he asks, taking an alluring step closer. He is all up in her personal space and she has to studiously remind herself that Thea is three feet away.

Her cheeks warm as his familiar smell clouds her senses again. “Oh, um...sure. I mean, _yes_. Of course,” she answers, creating space between them once more to quell the urge to kiss him. He’s being extra charming, playing with the fire of their cover story and what they need to protect. The whole effect makes him even more attractive and he knows it, because he’s giving her the smug grin that usually makes her tear off his clothes.

And yeah. It’s a shame she can’t do that right now.

There is something really really sexy about sneaking around from a distance, but the idea of doing it in even _closer_ proximity makes it even more exciting.

“I’ll just have to cancel with...Ray. My date.” At that, she frowns, just now realizing she, herself, will need to play the bad date card with him.

Even though it wasn’t a date.

Her husband's voice and eyes darken just enough for Thea to miss it, but not her. “He'll live.”

Felicity bites her lip in response. 

Oblivious, Thea claps. “Perfect! This will be fun. Mom’s gonna flip,” she says, looking entirely too delighted about the situation ahead. “Speaking of mom, I have to go meet her in the sunroom, since someone is coming by to give us manicures before tonight.” She grabs Felicity’s hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you out. And don’t worry, Ollie! I’ll give her your number so she can text you about tonight.”

Before she can say goodbye to him, Thea’s pulling her out the door and towards the hallway. Glancing back a little desperately, Oliver just winks at her, then wordlessly communicates he’ll call her before she’s out of sight.

Holding back a sigh, she dutifully follows Thea towards the entry. She really wishes they had more time to talk; she knows he’s gotten the latest from the agency about when they can lift their cover and come clean about their situation, and she’s eager for the update. They’re expecting the green light any moment and her patience the closer they get is severely dwindling.

It’ll all be worth it, she reminds herself for the hundredth time, mentally gearing up for the long evening ahead. They just need to make it through what is, hopefully, one more night of pretending, and then it’ll be finished.

At least her date is her husband.

.

.

.

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) I hope you're still enjoying this! I'd love and appreciate your thoughts, if you'd like to leave a comment. Thanks for reading. xx

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thanks so much for reading.
> 
> (title credit goes to Max Richter)


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